Je t'aime
by Gary Fuckin' King
Summary: Three people to pin her down, two bottles of whiskey, twenty stitches, and one miracle later, he realizes what should have been clear to him all along. Marius/Éponine, strained Marius/Cosette.


**A/N: Although I've seen the play and read the Brick, this is pretty movie-verse oriented. **

**First entry for the genre, so I'd love critiques and reviews and all that nice shit. I'm particularly concerned about my characterization. Lemme know, guys! **

**-Andrew**

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"A drink, Monsieur?" Marius lifts his eyes to the yellow-tinged water being offered to him, then to the bearer of the glass. Night has long since fallen still over Paris; the firing of guns and cannons has ceased and settled on the ground in shells, gunpowder, and blood. The young revolutionary sits in the depth of an alley way not too far off from the barricade. In his arms, he shelters the fragile body of the girl who saved his life—his best friend since childhood—Éponine Thenardier. As he combs his blood-stained fingers through her rain-soaked hair, he listens to the subdued chatter and occasional laugh from his fellow students and rebels on the barricade, watches the dim glow of their torches stroke the stone and gravel where the street and his passage meet. The light flickers down to its death and he returns his attention to the child in front of him.

"Ah, merci beaucoup," he replies, reaching up to accept the glass. Although the water is warm it soothes his dry throat and satisfies his thirst. "Any news from the barricade?"

"Courfeyrac shot down two trespassers and Gavroche stole a whole bread basket from one of the markets." A weak smile twitches at Marius' lips. The boy sits down, cross-legged, and faces him quizzically as Éponine stirs in her rest. Marius gently rubs her arm to keep her calm, which the child takes close notice of. "Is she okay?" he asks. Though the question is a stake through the rebel's heart, his smile remains in the light of the innocence behind it.

"She will be," he answers. For all he knows, this boy may be close with Éponine, or her brother, and though he is an honest man, he is morally unable to subject a child to such a heavy conversation. The reality of it all is far too grim for someone so young. "She will be…" Perhaps he's trying to reassure _himself _more than his little visitor. Maybe, subconsciously, he's trying to put his own mind at ease. With his bloody fingers he idly works a small tangle out of her dark brown hair as silence overtakes the alley. The child watches him with wide eyes; he scooches closer to get a better look.

"Was she shot?"

Marius is stunned into silence. This child is no older than 8 or 9 and yet he asks this as though he's asking for the time. This war has robbed them of not only their childhood, but the blissful naivety that graces it. The day a child can recognize a bullet wound for what it is, is the day this whole effort has truly gone too far. "She was," he chokes out, then tightens the arm he holds around her waist, pulling her closer to his chest. The smaller boy can hear the crack in his voice and offers the glass of water again. "Merci." This time, though, the warm liquid only sets his stomach further at unease.

Marius can tell that the boy is about to speak again, but he's cut off by the sound of footsteps in the alley. Though it is too dark to see, he knows it's Grantaire by the heavy clambering of his boots. Quietly, the child stands and once more looks the older revolutionary in the eye. "I should go," he explains quickly. "But the light went on in the café a few minutes ago. Perhaps someone in there can help you."

"Perhaps." Marius reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, wrapped around Éponine's shoulders in an attempt to protect the exit wound in her back. "And to whom do I owe my gratitude for the pleasure of this visit?"

"Guillaume Durand." The revolutionary drops 5 sous into the boy's tiny hands.

"Well, much appreciated, Monsieur Durand." The child beams at such a noble address.

"God be with you, Monsieur!"

"And also with you." The messenger steals away into the darkness as Grantaire emerges from it. He tips his hat in friendly mockery.

"_Monsieur._" Marius smirks and flexes his ankle forward to trip his comrade in response. They share a tense sort of laugh, but sober up quickly as Grantaire takes a knee. "How is she?" He rests a hand on Éponine's forehead.

"Can't be sure," Marius muses, glancing over the body in his arms. She's shivering slightly, which worries him, and he hugs her a little closer yet to try and quell whatever it is she's going through.

"A number of us convinced Enjolras to retire for the evening. Join us inside where it's warm."

"I don't want to move her." His concern is met with a grave nod. "I'm not certain she's asleep or if she's lost consciousness." With the hand he combs through her hair, he gently thumbs an eyelash away from her rosy cheek. Grantaire removes the glove he carries his rifle with and reaches out to try and feel her breath against his skin. Right now, it's the only reliable sign of life they can detect.

"What do you fear moving her will do that the monarchists haven't already?" Marius considers this.

"You do pose a point of reason, I suppose."

"Come." Grantaire straightens up. "I'll help you." He carefully lifts Éponine out of his friend's arms, allowing him to stand and stretch his legs a bit. As they pass the barricade, guarded on all sides, Marius cannot help the numbness that overtakes his spine; he cannot draw his eyes away. Watching their torches dance in the after-rainfall breeze, and the way the moonlight glints off the barrels of their guns and creates a sort of grainy effect through the heavy mist, he is stricken by the realization that this pile of broken, scorched furniture may very well last longer than his best friend, just by enduring the night. A single tear threatens to spill from the corner of his eye; he follows his fellow student a little more rigidly.


End file.
